A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

There had been so many good days. So many lovely hours spent in that quiet, sunlit room. Her mother would brush and plait her hair, all the while humming pleasant melodies and murmuring words of love and praise.

It took only an instant for everything to change. It didn’t matter how good she was, or how carefully she followed the rules. And Isabel knew, because she had tried hard—so very hard—

to be good. In the space of a heartbeat, the spit of a curse, the smack of a silver brush—the madness would take hold. The madness would clutch at anything within reach: clothing, hair, flesh.

Then it would release its grip, just as quickly. So quickly, Bel could have imagined the whole feverish, violent episode to be only a dream, were there no bruises or marks to bear witness. But they hadn’t been a dream, all those years of love twining inexorably with hurt. And last night hadn’t been a dream, either. It had been a revelation.

Toby had wounded her, here—her fingers drifted to her other breast—and here. And this morning, she looked upon those marks without a trace of shame or self-loathing or fear. In fact, she found them thrilling.

Yes, he had marked her in a moment of wild, mindless passion, just as her mother had done. But these marks were different, so different. Everything was different. He’d changed her life, this dear, sweet man who would never lie to her, never let her come to harm, who would risk his life to guard hers. With Toby, at last she felt safe.

Not only safe, but loved.

He loved her. How many times had he told her so, the night before? She’d stopped counting at four. She might have—now that she thought about it—briefly lost consciousness at four. At any rate, it was clear that he’d been wishing to say it for some time, and now she could expect to hear it quite often.

He loved her, and she loved him. And shouldn’t life be wonderful now?

Perhaps it was the first whisper of madness speaking, but as Bel bathed and dressed, she began to believe it could be. Surely her heart was strong enough, surely her love was sufficiently deep. She could devote herself to both Toby and charity. Passion by night, good works by day. Why couldn’t she have it all?

She found herself humming a theme from Don Giovanni as the carriage conveyed her to the printer’s shop, where she retrieved two stacks of Society leaflets bound with twine. Bel scanned one with satisfaction. Augusta’s clear prose described the plight of the climbing boys and articulated the argument in favor of replacing horrific child labor with grown men and modern machinery. And while Augusta’s text appealed to the reader’s reason, Sophia’s deft illustrations pulled at the heart. Now it fell to her, as a lady of increasing social influence, to convert sympathy into action. That was the purpose of the demonstration Friday. And Bel’s mission today, as befitted a lady of influence, was to issue personal invitations. It was time to pay a call on Aunt Camille. Otherwise known as Her Grace, the Duchess of Aldonbury.

The Duchess of Aldonbury was, as duchesses went, a rather minor one. She was not a royal duchess. Nevertheless, Aunt Camille held her own version of court. She hosted a ladies’ card party on the third Wednesday of every month, and she guarded the invitations with every ounce of supercilious zeal her aristocratic rank allowed. Add to this the talent of a renowned Frenchtrained pastry chef, and each third Wednesday afternoon saw London’s most elite and influential ladies converging on Her Grace’s residence. To merit an invitation, one must bring a purse bursting with coin to wager and a quiver of witty rejoinders to amuse. Bel didn’t meet either qualification, but she was family and therefore exempt.

When she entered the Roman-styled parlor, there were already nearly two dozen ladies in attendance, arranged in neat clusters of four. Sophia was seated at a table of whist players near the hearth. Bel exchanged a warm smile with her sister-in-law as she moved to greet her aunt.

“Your Grace.” Bel dipped in a graceful curtsy, and followed it with a warm kiss to the matron’s rouged cheek. “How are you, Aunt Camille?”

“I am well, child.” Aunt Camille waved Bel to a seat and then promptly forgot her. Which suited Bel’s purpose, because she was here to speak with everyone except Aunt Camille. Armed with a small clutch of leaflets, she approached a knot of ladies chatting by the tea service.

“Lady Violet, Mrs. Breckinridge,” she greeted them brightly. The ladies turned to her with expressions of benign amusement. “I’m so delighted to see you. Did you receive my invitation to breakfast at Aldridge House, this Friday?”

“Yes, and I thought surely it was a joke,” Lady Violet replied. “Breakfast, at half-eight in the morning? Why, I’m scarcely abed by five.”

“It’s not only a breakfast,” Bel said. “The meal will be followed by a demonstration, of an exciting innovation in house hold management. This is the reason for the early hour, you see.”